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Embarking, they mouth soft words to the ladies – lagoon, woozy, wop – men with eight bits and an hour to kill. I am to sing as we float along, a quaint air to soothe the nerves of these princes of shoe leather and liver pills, these brewmeisters with old money stuffed into new pockets. They have paved their streets with the bones of our backs, scorned our saints and old-country hats. Walking home from our Saturday baths, we spit on the gates of their private streets, scowl through the grates at their children who are pale as dolls.
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